


what century is this, exactly?

by lovebeyondmeasure



Series: lbm's trope mashups [3]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Illnesses, Mutual Pining, Sickfic, Trope Mashup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:39:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15066368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebeyondmeasure/pseuds/lovebeyondmeasure
Summary: As far as Cormoran is concerned, it’s the end of the world.“Diphtheria! Is this the fucking- Victorian times? What bloody fucking good is modern medicine if a bunch of-”cough, cough“-daft bints who read some fuckin- internet-”cough, cough, cough“-don’t bother to use it?”





	what century is this, exactly?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lindmea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmea/gifts).



> Linds prompted Sick/Injured + Locked In A Room, and the coin flip was in favor of Sick. Well.... at least I didn't shoot anyone.
> 
> I'm crossposting these [Trope Mashups](http://lovebeyondmeasure.tumblr.com/post/174158556839/fanfiction-trope-mash-up) from my tumblr, and anyone is welcome to send me more, but please know that this is all there will be of these works. They are complete as-is. If you want more content, send me a new prompt at my tumblr! Anon is always on, so you don't need a tumblr account (or an ao3 account!) to send me something.

Cormoran is so rarely sick that when he finds himself stricken with a cold, he’s more offended than bedridden. When it doesn’t go away after five miserable days, he takes himself off to the local clinic, to be told he has a cold and to drink plenty of fluids, get some rest, and come back if symptoms worsen. Thanks.

Robin, ever one to care for those in need, sends him up to his apartment to follow doctor’s orders. A day later, he begins to cough. Ugh. Robin brings him soup from the takeaway down the street and keeps him updated on their few cases. The next day, his mobile rings. And rings. And rings. 

Then the office phone rings- everyone who was in the waiting room two days ago has been potentially exposed to diphtheria. 

“Diphtheria?” Robin says, bewildered. “What year is it?”

“One of the children in the room traveled abroad and was exposed, and wasn’t up to date on his shots,” the voice on the phone says, terse and weary. “Everyone who was in the waiting room or has been directly exposed to the patient should come to St Mary’s for testing.”

“What happens if it comes back positive?”

“A few days in isolation, and antibiotics. As long as the patient's had their shots and it’s caught early, it shouldn’t be life threatening.”

“We’ll be in immediately.”

As far as Cormoran is concerned, it’s the end of the world.

“Diphtheria! Is this the fucking- Victorian times? What bloody fucking good is modern medicine if a bunch of-”  _cough, cough_  “-daft bints who read some fuckin- internet-”  _cough, cough, cough_  “-don’t bother to use it?”

Cormoran has diphtheria, but only very mildly, due to his childhood vaccine but lack of booster shots. Robin, thankfully, probably does not. They’re both administered antitoxin and prescribed antibiotics, just in case, and sent home with clear care plan and severe instructions to call if ANYTHING changes.

Now neither of them can go out until the contagious period has ended, and Cormoran is miserable when he’s ill. So Robin’s staying in the office on the cot, he’s hacking away with a terrible cough, and they’re stuck together. 

And to make matters worse, Robin had been so sure that seeing Cormoran ill and gross and surly would finally cure her of the terrible little crush that had taken root in her chest. It was nothing more than transference, she’d told herself, in the wake of her traumatic post-wedding, post-divorce life. And maybe it was. But it wasn’t going away. If anything, spending all her time taking care of him, watching old movies on TV, cooking whatever could be managed and ordering delivery, it all made her like him  _more_.  _Why this_ , she wondered, as Cormoran swore between wracking coughs.  _God, if you’re listening, why this._

Cormoran, of course, hated everything. Hated his body’s further betrayals. Hated the enforced stillness, so reminiscent of that time After. Hated having to tell clients he had fucking diphtheria-  _diphtheria-_  and so couldn’t finish their cases. And more than anything else, he hated looking weak and helpless in front of Robin, the object of his feckless, stupid dumb fucking heart’s affections. She, of course, would never return his useless feelings, having helped him stumble, sweaty and clammy and disgusting, into his tiny lavatory to rinse the clamminess of illness from his shambling body. That was certainly put directly to rest. Nothing could ever happen between them now.


End file.
